Lifetimes
by pathera
Summary: Merlin and Arthur always find each other, no matter who or where they are. A series of twenty random word one-shots, Merlin/Arthur friendship and minor slash.
1. Immobility

A/N: Merry Christmas! Welcome to a little writing experiment of mine! I usually do song drabbles, but I sort of wore myself out on song drabbles with my _White Collar _fic _Details_. Still, I wanted to do a series of drabbles for _Merlin_, and I decided to do them based on random words, provided by the Random Word Generator (google it, it's brilliant for breaking writer's block). I settled on doing twenty of them, and I was originally intending to post them either in sets or all in one post...until I realized that some of these drabbles were turning out to be...well, not drabbles. So instead, I present to you a series of twenty one-shots, inspired by random words, which will be posted one at a time. Some are shorter, some are longer, but each one is complete. The update schedule will probably be sporadic; the first four one-shots are done or almost done, the fifth is started, and I have ideas for the next two or three. The pairings will predominately be Merlin/Arthur, maybe a couple of others mixed in. _Most _of these one-shots are going to be based on reincarnations, thus the title _Lifetimes_, but I might go back to the canon world every once in a while. I'm putting the rating at T for the moment, but it might be raised as we go one. I kind of doubt it, but we'll see. I'll give any particular warnings for the one-shot before, just in case! Well...enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own _Merlin_. Not even on DVD, unless it happens to be under my Christmas Tree. (Which it very well might be, so yay!)

Warnings: The following one-shot contains mild angst and character death. It could also have very light implied slash or just friendship, whichever you prefer.

Lifetimes

**1. Immobility—**_incapable of being moved, fixed_

By the time he gets to the hospital, he knows it's too late. He curses every god he's ever heard of as he stalks through the corridors, a force that cannot be stopped even by the fiercest of nurses. _(Rightfully, he should probably be praying to every god he can think of, but after living for centuries, he doesn't invite the meddling of gods anymore.) _People do try to stop him, but he doesn't heed them. He knows exactly where he's going. The faint pulse of magic—the one that grows fainter and fainter with every step—guides him.

He throws open the door to the hospital room. The door clangs against the wall loudly; the woman who is crumpled into a chair at the side of the hospital bed jumps, her head jerking up, her eyes wide. He spares her a glance long enough to realize who she is, then focuses his attention on the man lying comatose in the bed. This man is pale, thin, dark-haired; his breathing is shallow. His expression is…almost peaceful.

But he's fading. He knows just by looking at him, but more than that, he can _feel _it. That tiny ember is ever fading to a dull coal. He is slipping away.

He crosses to the other side of the bed and takes the man's hand in his own, conscious all the while that the woman is staring at him with wide eyes. He bends his head and closes his eyes and conjures the magic. _(He is like a raging fire next to the fading ember. If only he could….) _

He tries to heal. But it's too late, and he's known that from the beginning. It's too late for even sacrifice to bring him from the edge; it's too late and the old magic refuses to heed. This time Arthur will slip away and there is no bringing him back.

He pulls back, surfacing from his magic and opening his eyes. The woman stares at him. There's recognition in her eyes, but not cognitive. She knows him from a dream or from the feeling in her heart that he's supposed to be there. But she doesn't remember that he is Merlin or that the man whose hand she holds is Arthur or that her own name is Guinevere. Instead, she just stares at him with hope until he closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he walks through the door as the heart monitor flat lines.

He makes it ten steps down the corridor before his own heart follows suit.

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Reviews are the best gifts you can give during the holiday season!


	2. Fen

_A/N: _Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and put this story on story alert! And Merry Christmas to everyone! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday! I forgot to mention in the first one that I've included the definitions of the words that I used at the beginning, primarily for my own benefit because some of the words were ones I didn't know, haha. This one-shot is a fluffy little thing, that again you can read as either slash or friendship, so there are no warnings for it. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I still don't own Merlin, and Santa didn't bring it for me, unfortunately.

**2. Fen—**_a type of wetland fed by ground water and runoff, containing peat below the water line _

Arthur shoots him a glare after he sighs for the fifth time in less than ten minutes. "Merlin, if you are going to continue to sit there I suggest you stop breathing heavily in order to catch my attention. You sound like you have a head cold."

He makes a face at the blonde once-king-always-prat and stares gloomily out the window, which is the other thing that he's been doing in a rather pointed way. "I miss Albion."

There is a little stir of motion as Arthur jerks his head up and puts his pen down. Although, _puts down _is a rather nice way of putting it, since it's more of a fumbling and almost dropping the damn thing and it makes him grin a little. Arthur glares as though warning him not to mention it and then smoothes his expression. "What?"

He sighs, turning in his chair. "I miss it. I miss Albion and Ealdor and Camelot. I miss the forests and the fens and the wild places. I'm tired of this cold, miserable place where it rains all the time. We're locked in stone in this city, worse than we were in the castle. There we could always ride out and we'd be in the wild. Here you have to go leagues before you even get a hint of it." He shudders. "I feel…caged."

Arthur tilts his head, staring at him. Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth quirks up into a half-grin. "D'you know Merlin…this may be the second time this century that you've actually had a valid point."

"I always have valid points, you're just too thick-headed to notice them," he retorts automatically. Then he straightens up, Arthur's words sinking in. He begins to smile. "Does that mean…?"

Arthur rolls the pen away from him and stands. "I believe it might be time for a trip to the country. Perhaps some fresh air will stop you from sounding like an asthmatic."

He stands, smiling, and rushes through the door. He has an appointment with a suitcase right about now.

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'Tis the season to leave reviews!


	3. Protuberance

_A/N: _Here's the third one-shot in the set, which happens to be the one that was _supposed _to be a drabble or close to it and very quickly expanded. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Nope. Still don't own it.

Warnings: Angsty Merlin and minor character death.

**3. Protuberance—**_a bulge, knob, swelling, spine or anything that protrude_

Once, Merlin actively tries to be normal. It's in a life that falls sometime after the Crusades—and wasn't _that _an annoying period to live in?—but before the French Revolution. He refuses to seek out Arthur—even though he can feel his counterpart buzzing around somewhere—refuses to do magic, refuses to be anything other than _normal_. _Average_. He's the son of a farmer and he takes care of his land with skill and pride.

Of course, things don't go as planned. He hits the age of twenty-one without straying too far from his goal of normality, never using magic, never looking for Arthur, never thinking too much about the memories that are floating around in his head. But his magic doesn't really appreciate this whole denial route. It bubbles under his skin, leaping up at every possible chance, trying to force his hand. His magic makes him clumsy—hell, he's always been clumsy, but in this life it's just bloody ridiculous—and it starts to…turn. Before this, he never realizes that the denial of something so fundamental to his nature could hurt so damn much. He tries desperately to suppress everything that makes him _Merlin, ooh the grand sorcerer Merlin_. This time 'round he just wants to be [insert generic name here, which this time happens to be Martin]. He wants to be nothing at all.

But pushing it all down, locking it all away, has ramifications that he doesn't even consider until they come rushing out of him. He denies his magic and it burns beneath his skin, turning his blood to boiling acid; he denies Arthur, marries Freya and settles down to a happy, content, _plain _life, and he ends up secretly hating what he's chosen. Arthur is an ache in his muscles, one that won't fade, one that seizes him up and shakes him and makes everything else impossible. Worst of all is the way that his magic—unused, unwanted, unheeded—tangles inside of him. It goes from being something firmly under his control to an overgrown forest teaming with dangerous beasts. It's completely unpredictable, completely uncontrollable, and worst of all, _dangerous_.

_He _is dangerous.

It starts as accidents. Plain, honest to god, _accidents. _James, one of the farmhands, trips and breaks his arm; the plow breaks; the horse pulls a muscle. Early frost sets in and destroys the crop. The stables burn to the ground. It's a string of bad luck, nothing more.

_(Oh, but he knows differently. He feels the magic leaking from his pores, slipping out into his cozy little world and destroying everything it touches. He is the bad luck. Worst, he doesn't know how to fix things that have gone so terribly awry.) _

When Freya tells him that she's pregnant, he couldn't be happier. He hasn't had children yet, not in any of his lives. He's always been too busy chasing down Arthur's royal pain in the arse to build a separate life of his own. So he spins her around and touches her stomach with wonder and he's sure his smile could bring cheer to even the most heartless of men—Uther Pendragon, anyone?

_(He so happy, but the moment she speaks those words aloud he's also terrified. He can feel a doom hanging in the air and he's not sure if it's his imagination or something real. That night, after they have celebrated, when Freya is curled up in their bed, he sneaks out to the field and sits cross-legged in the moonlight. There he looks inside of himself and tries to pull all his magic back under his willing control. He's afraid of it. He's afraid of himself.) _

As they get closer to the due date, Merlin feels dread wrap around him like the coils of some massive python, squeezing tighter with every passing day. He's not sure if it's just a normal man's uncertainty at becoming a parent, or if it's a deeper, precognitive terror drawn from his magical awareness. He can't focus on anything, and every unusual sound makes him jump and rush to his wife's side. During the last couple of weeks, he can't bring himself to leave her. People around him comment on his devotion. _(He knows that it's fear. If he leaves her, what might happen?) _

When the baby is born, he isn't there. The _one _day that he isn't there and fortune's wheel pulls her tricks. He is gone for a matter of hours, just long enough to replenish their dwindling firewood supply, get a basket of groceries, and retrieve a yard of cloth that Freya asked him to get. He's in the middle of haggling over a slab of beef when it happens. He _knows _that it has started when all of his magic jerks like a bolt of electricity in the middle of his chest and then rushes away from him, an avalanche loosened by a tremor in the world. He will later be told that he goes bloodless and sways on his feet as he drops everything in his hands and runs the other direction.

He meets the messenger halfway home, takes one look at the boy's face, and spurns the horse into a gallop. By the time he reaches his quaint little farm—where _Martin_ has lived the life of a common farmer—he knows that it is too late. His _normal _has been irrevocably shattered. When he steps through the front door, his magic greets him, warm and soft in the air, content now that it has done its part to destroy his ability at denial. He waves a hand, brushing it out of his way, feeling its invisible strands against his skin like cobwebs. It mutters a little hum of discontent and trots at his heels like a dejected puppy, waiting for forgiveness. _(He doesn't have that in him yet.) _Inside the house, he follows the keening sorrowed wail; at the door to their bedroom he finds the midwife, slumped against the frame, her hands still bloody. His stomach lurches at the sight of it and he fights it down. It's not as though he's never seen blood before. Not as though he's never seen blood belonging to a person he loves, for that matter.

The midwife raises her head, meeting his gaze, and she crumples. "Oh, Martin, I—." He shakes his head sharply.

"She's dead."

The midwife gasps at his stark statement, but gives a wavering nod. Something inside of him—_Martin, _he thinks_, Martin and his simple little life_—gives way. "The child…?" He asks.

She breathes, then nods to the closed door across the hall. He can hear faint sobbing leak from beneath the doorframe and something in his chest tightens sharply then loosens. "A boy," the midwife says, "healthy and strong. He is with Gertrude." He nods and closes his eyes for a brief moment.

"Thank you, Maria. I-I know you tried."

She stares at him, her eyes wide. She doesn't quite recognize him, he thinks, because Martin has broken and Merlin is rising through his skin. Then she looks away and bows her head and she flees. He stands at the doorway of his bedroom, sucks in a breath, and then pushes the door open. Freya—_(no, Freya is dead and this is just her body)_—is sprawled on the bed. She could be asleep, but for the dead way her limbs hang and the pale emptiness of her face and the stain of blood across the sheets. He wants to go to her side, hold her in his arms, be Martin just a little longer before normal dies, but it is too late. If he touches her she will be cold, and he wants only to remember her warmth.

He closes the door.

"I'm so sorry, Martin," a thin voice says. Gertrude has emerged from the other room, a bundle in her arms. He sees a patch of dark hair over the swaddle of the blankets and Gertrude clutches the child tighter to her chest. He shakes his head and extends his arms; she hesitates, then delivers the child to him. He takes the child carefully and Gertrude guides him through the proper handling of an infant. The baby is warmth in his arms that goes straight through him. More than that, the moment that he looks down and the baby's eyes flicker open—they're a bright, clear blue, and he wonders if that color will stay as he grows _(he wonders more why __**his **__son has Arthur's eyes)_—he feels another jolt of magic down in his core.

His arms tighten automatically as he fights down the urge to laugh hysterically, because _this _is the way things have turned out. Freya is dead _(again)_, and Martin has been destroyed, and this tiny child—this beautiful little thing—is bloody _Mordred_. He knows that jolt of recognition anywhere. He closes his eyes, because this could _only _happen to him. Mordred—the little druid boy, the destroyer of Camelot, Arthur's slayer in more than one life, his sworn enemy over the ages—is his _son_.

He wants to laugh—_oh, how he wants to laugh_—but Freya is dead and his semblance of a life is shattered and Mordred is an innocent child and now is not the time for laughing.

"I'll help you, Martin. Don't worry about a thing with the babe, I'll be right here—"

He opens his eyes. "Thank you, Gw-Gertrude," he says, and hates that he almost calls her Gwen. She has no memory of the past, just the blissful ability to live now and never fear that her future will repeat her mistakes. This fear is one he can't shake; it is the one that has made him try for normal and fail so utterly.

Now though, he will stop pretending to be a normal human. He will stop being Martin and let Merlin climb up from the dust. He will hold his son, hug Gertrude, and bury his wife. In a few months, he will leave his farm in Gertrude's hands and journey to London and find Arthur. And when he steps into Arthur's arms all the broken pieces of him will start to fit back together.

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	4. Strangulation

_A/N: _Thanks to all my reviewers and lurkers! I'm afraid that I'm terribly mean to Merlin again in this one-shot, as seems to be a theme of this collection. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: _Still _not mine.

Warnings: Slight mentions of domestic abuse.

**4. Strangulation—**_the action or process of strangling_

When Merlin comes in wearing a turtleneck and avoiding his gaze, Arthur gets a bad feeling, the kind that can't decide whether to settle in his stomach or in his heart and floats in the ethers between instead. It's not that there's anything wrong with a turtleneck, or with Merlin wearing one-_(he actually loves turtlenecks on Merlin, because they accentuate his ridiculous ears in a way that makes them kind of perfect)—_it's just that it's the middle of summer. And sure, Merlin is always cold, but not _that _bloody cold.

Arthur doesn't comment, and Merlin doesn't say anything, but Merlin tries to pretend that it's perfectly normal for him to not even _look _at his boss, and Arthur watches him carefully while pretending that he doesn't notice anything wrong. Merlin's movements are just a hair off, a little too stiff, a little too tight, a little too slow; when he hits his wrist on the edge of the desk he lets out a sharp hiss and Arthur catches a glimpse of a dark shadow on Merlin's ridiculously pale skin, before he pulls his sleeve back down like a teenager trying to hide a hickey.

The bad feeling coils in his midriff, tightening. He tries to focus on the paper in front of him but the numbers jump and shift and he has the odd feeling of spiraling as he tries to ignore the heavy, tense silence. They go through the motions of normality, Merlin pretending that nothing is wrong, Arthur pretending that he believes that nothing is wrong. This holds between them all day, until they are both shuffling their papers into a semblance of order and locking filing cabinets. Merlin grabs his briefcase and ducks his head and turns to the door, only to jolt to a stop, because Arthur is standing in the doorway, arms folded, head leaned back.

"Arthur?" Merlin says, and Arthur feels like it's the first word that's been spoken all day. "Do you need something?" He detects the slightest tremor in Merlin's voice, the subtle catch in his throat because they both know that this little charade is about to break around them. He doesn't respond verbally, just takes three steps forward. He both sees and feels Merlin shrink back as he comes into his personal space and the bad feeling stabs him from the inside. He reaches out his hands, moving slowly, as if he's trying to coerce a wild animal to come closer, and takes Merlin's right hand in his own. He meets Merlin's eyes—_God, he hates what he sees there, the desperation, the fear, the pleading—_and inhales as he slowly slides up Merlin's sleeve. The dark shadow from earlier is now clear; up close it is colorful, dull red and dark purple and touches of blue in the shape of finger marks encircling Merlin's bony, thin wrist. Merlin seems so _small _and fragile, as though his bones are those of bird, hollow and easily broken.

Merlin's lips part but no sound comes out. Arthur runs his thumb lightly along the edges of the bruises and tries to breathe and meets Merlin's eyes, then slowly raises one hand, letting his fingertips brush lightly over the planes of Merlin's cheeks before hooking onto the collar of the sweater. Merlin shudders and stares at him and trembles like he's going to break and run as Arthur gently pulls down the collar. The smooth skin of Merlin's neck shows the same mottled bruises, the imprint of fingers. He releases the collar, letting it ease back into place, but doesn't move away.

"You're not going home," he says, surprised to find that his voice emerges as a thin croak. Merlin closes his eyes.

"I have to. He'll—he'll be mad if I don't—."

He touches a finger to Merlin's lips and those lovely green eyes flash open. "You're not going home, Merlin. You can go to Gwen and Lance's, or to Morgana's, or to Leon's, or to Will's. You can go home to Ealdor. You can go to Gaius's." He licks his lips. "You can come with me. But you're not going back to…_that _place."

"I—," Merlin says, and he knows it will be a protest. He shakes his head.

"_No_, Merlin." He closes his eyes, still holding Merlin's hand in his own. "_Please_, don't." He doesn't open his eyes right away, because he's afraid he'll see that stubborn determination in Merlin's eyes. He's afraid that he'll open his eyes and Merlin will still go home and let that bastard hit him and try to convince himself that love means that depth of pain. Instead, he feels Merlin's fingers tighten against his own and his eyes open, and Merlin is looking at him.

"Can—can I stay with you?"

He tightens his grip on Merlin's hand and exhales, some of the tension leaving his body. "Yes."

Merlin nods, still hesitant, still skittish, and when he finally makes a noise again it's a croak of a hysterical laugh. "The turtleneck wasn't all the subtle, was it?"

He feels his own slightly hysterical laugh bubble up and just barely squashes it, stepping forward to draw Merlin into a hug instead. "It's eighty degrees outside, Merlin. So no, not really." Merlin hugs him back, burying his face into the crook of his neck, his frame shaking a bit. Arthur's not sure if its hysterics or tears or just a tremor, but he holds him tight until the shaking subsides.

_(He has no intentions of ever letting go.)_

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Reviews will keep me warm when I have to shovel the driveway!


	5. Lullaby

_A/N: _Thanks to all my reviewers! In this one-shot I'm still mean to Merlin but I'm much meaner to Arthur. This one is another hurt/comfort, because that seems to be what I'm writing right now. There will be a couple that are more humorous coming up though! Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: _I really hate these things. I really, really do.

_Warnings: _Character death and mild angst.

**15. Lullaby—**_a soothing refrain; specifically, a song to quiet children or lull them to sleep_

When Gwen dies, it stands to reason that his entire world should fall apart. He's twenty-five, has a newborn baby girl, has no ideas of how to be a good parent, and the love of his life is now gone. He shouldn't be able to pick up his head, much less soldier on. He should fall apart at the seams. But curiously, he doesn't. Because Merlin slips right into the hollow that Gwen has left in his life without a word, taking up the reins as though that's where he's always been, always meant to be. In the hospital, when he's sitting next to his wife's body, speechless and shaking and cold straight through, it's Merlin who comes in and takes his hand and tugs him away, guiding him to the nursery, where he leans his head against the panel of glass and looks in at his little girl and lets the tears slide down his cheeks.

It's Merlin who deals with the doctors and their forms; Merlin who makes the calls to Gwen's parents, to Morgana, even to Uther; it's Merlin who comforts Morgana when she comes skidding into the hospital with her hair tangled and her skin pale; Merlin who gently but firmly chases away Uther when his heavy-handed attempts at taking control of the situation become too strangling. It's Merlin who comes back to him and grips his shoulders, and asks for the name. Merlin who tells the nurses, who then write it the birth certificate, who write it on a little white card and it tape it to her cradle, spiky handwriting that says _Anna Guinevere Pendragon_. Merlin sits with him the whole long night, holding his hand tight, offering silent comfort as he cries softly himself, because it's not just Arthur who has lost someone he loves.

Later, it's Merlin who carries their bags as they leave the hospital, Arthur clutching his daughter as if she's the last solid thing in the world. It's Merlin who drives, because Arthur can't see though his fogged eyes enough to focus on anything. Merlin is the one who unlocks the door to his house, the one who guides him through the motions of feeding Anna, of burping her, changing her diaper, tucking her in safe in her crib. It's Merlin who holds him when he breaks and lets him cry. Merlin takes care of the funeral arrangements, holds Arthur's shoulder through the ceremony, and at the end of the day he tucks Arthur into bed as though he's a child, smoothing his hair back from his forehead and pressing a soft kiss to his crown.

Merlin fills in the gaps that Gwen has left in his life. For the first week or so, Arthur expects to wake and find that Merlin has suddenly vanished, expects to find that he is alone. _(He's not sure he can do it alone. With Merlin there, he knows that if he falters Merlin will catch him. But he's terrified that he'll be alone and lost and broken, and how can he be a good father like that? Half the time he's sure that the ground will turn to quicksand and swallow him whole.) _He's sure that his selfishness—because he's being selfish and he knows it, putting the weight of his grief onto his best friend, but he can't find the strength to pull it back inside of himself—will drive Merlin away. And if that doesn't, Anna's crying at all hours of the night will. After all, Merlin isn't her father or her mother; it's not his responsibility to try and calm a crying newborn at four in the morning. Arthur tries to get there before Merlin, tries to hush his daughter before she wakes him, but half of the time he stumbles half-asleep to her nursery to find Merlin already there, rocking the girl in his arms and giving him a sleepy smile.

He keeps expecting for Merlin to walk away…but he doesn't. He stays. And more than simply _staying_, he begins to integrate his life into theirs _(not __**his**__, but theirs because it's Arthur and Anna, the man who lost his wife and the girl who never got a chance to be held by her mother)_. Arthur pushes open the door to the guest bedroom one day to find the closet and drawers full, the comforter and sheets those once belonging to the bed in Merlin's flat, and a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. He roots through the kitchen cabinets to find his favorite chips nestled right alongside of Merlin's favorites. Merlin's books join his on the bookshelf in the living room. Slowly, the boundaries between _his _and _Merlin's _break and congeal into a simple _theirs_. _(And just as slowly, heart-breakingly slow, Gwen's belongings are put away. Her clothes stay in the closet for three months before he swallows the lump in his throat and boxes them up. The array of her cosmetics and jewelry on their dresser stay longer, a shrine to her memory, before they join the clothes in the attic. He finds little traces of her strewn across the house. Some of them he leaves, refusing to erase her entirely. Most of them he puts away, preserving them for the day when Anna will ask for them, for the day when he'll pull them back down and run his fingers over the cloth or metal and maybe still be able to smell a trace of her perfume.)_

He and Merlin never say a word about the arrangement. Arthur is afraid to speak, afraid that if he says something Merlin will leave, more afraid that if he says something he'll inadvertantly admit that he _needs _Merlin to stay. He frets and worries and feels a twist in his stomach when the thinks that Merlin will leave. Eventually, Merlin _will _leave, he thinks.

But on the night that he comes home from work late—with no intentions of doing anything but going straight to sleep—and finds Merlin standing next to Anna's crib, softly singing her a lullaby in a language that he doesn't recognize, he stops worrying about Merlin leaving. Arthur stands silent and unnoticed in the doorway of the nursery, watching. He's never heard Merlin sing before—because their loud croonings along with the radio don't count as _singing_—and finds that the man's voice is soft and melodious, but it's the expression in his eyes that gives Arthur pause. There's a look of sappy adoration on his friend's face, pure devotion and love as he looks down at the sleeping infant. It's the same look on _his _face every time he looks at his daughter, and he knows it. He clears his throat softly and Merlin jumps, head jerking up. He grins as Merlin shakes his head and comes to the doorway.

"You scared me, you jerk."

"What were you singing?" He asks, and a blush rises in Merlin's cheeks.

"An old lullaby. I remember my mum singing it to me. I think it's in Old Welsh, but I'm not sure."

Arthur considers his friend, then smiles. "Thank you, Merlin."

"For what?"

He shakes his head, shrugging it off, and Merlin rolls his eyes. "Typical Arthur Pendragon," he says, but the light touch he lays on Arthur's shoulder says everything that could be said. Arthur stops worrying about the inevitable day that Merlin will leave, and Merlin continues staying until neither of them can remember it being any different.

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_Reviews will keep you warm through the winter!_


	6. Dressmaker

_A/N: _Happy New Year! Sorry for the lack of update the past couple of days! But welcome to a one-shot that has **NO ANGST. **Shocking, right? This one is a lighter, funnier little ficlet. I actually have a New Year's themed chapter that I really wanted to post, but unfortunately it's not quite written yet, haha. So I give you this one instead! Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: _It's 2011 and I still don't own Merlin. Boo.

**14. Dressmaker—**_one that makes dresses_

Arthur Pendragon glances briefly at the paper that Morgana has thrust into his hands, blinks, and looks up to glare at his stepsister. "Contrary to your belief, Morgana, I am _not _your personal errand boy. In case you haven't noticed, I have a company to run."

She rolls her eyes, a typical expression for their interactions. "Could have fooled me." She props her hands on her hips, staring him down. "I am perfectly aware that Uther doesn't need you in today, and furthermore, _I _am going to be late for the auditions and it will be _your _fault." He opens his mouth to protest but she cuts him off with a smirk, one of those ones that makes him automatically look around like something's going to pop out at him. "Besides, I recall you losing our bet last night and agreeing to be my servant for a week."

He blinks again, sorting through the headache and his rather hazy memory of the night before. There had been drinks. Many, _many _drinks. And…dammit. He scowls at her, folding his arms. "I was drunk," he says, and knows that he has a five year old's tone of _no fair _in his voice.

"Just because you can hold your liquor doesn't mean the bet doesn't count. I can check to make sure it's legally valid, if you'd like." Her smirk just gets bigger. "You lost the bet, you're my slave for a week. Now, leave me alone so that I can get to the bloody auditions. And follow the list!"

This is how Arthur Pendragon finds himself standing outside of the brightly-colored _Camelot Designs_, clutching a sheet of paper detailing Morgana's pick-up information as well as her next order. This is the third task on her bloody list, and while it's fine on paper—if a bit…domestic for his tastes, because his relationship with Morgana is _not _the generous _Oh-I'll-go-run-your-errands-for-you _kind of thing—standing in front of the bright store is another thing. Mentally he vows to never drink with his step-sister again, a vow that has been made—and broken—several times before. He eyes the store warily. He knows of _Camelot Designs_, has heard the name before, but he can't place where he's heard it. From the outside it's a nice place, small and _extremely _bright, its sign an electric blue, the door painted emerald green, the display in the window vibrant with pinks and yellows, reds and purples.

_It's just a bloody dress shop, get a hold of yourself Pendragon_, he mentally chides himself, and heads for the door. He steps into what immediately seems like a fantastical garden or something like that, color jumping out at him from every side. There is soft upbeat music in the background, some rock band that he's probably never heard of. There is a soft vanilla-cinnamon scent in the air, not overpowering but just strong enough to make the room seem warmer. It takes him a minute to locate the front desk through the jungle of colors, another moment longer to realize that the person behind the counter is a slim man about his age with dark hair and ridiculous ears. He approaches the counter and the man gives him a standard fake smile, rattling off a "How are you doing today and how can I help you?"

He pushes the paper with Morgana's details across the countertop. "I need to pick up this dress and place this order." The man—his nametag says _Merlin _of all things, and isn't that taking the theme of the store a little far?—picks up the paper, examining it before looking up with a raised eyebrow.

"You are _not_ Morgana."

"I'm astounded by your observation skills," he says, scowling. "Can you just get the dress and place the order?"

The man types something into the computer next to him, glancing at him periodically. "Are you Morgana's new slave?" He blinks. Because really, that's the only reaction that comes into his head. In response to his silence the man elaborates, grinning out of the corner of his mouth. "Her new assistant. I thought she was getting a girl next time, after what a mess Edwin made of things. Said she was done with men because we just muck things up." He almost grins, because that sounds _exactly _like Morgana, but then indignation courses through him and flushes amusement away.

"I'm not her _assistant_," he bites out. The man does not seem appropriately cowed by his irritation, and it makes him feel a bit off kilter. He's used to people running in terror from his slightest scowl, but this _Merlin _doesn't show the slightest turn of a hair. "I'm her brother."

Merlin rummages beneath the counter for something, nodding as enlightenment comes into his eyes. "Ah, so _you're _the prat." He almost chokes. He really does. He's pretty sure that he makes an unattractive sputtering sound and Merlin seems far too amused by it. "I can see why she calls you that."

Now he's _positive _that he sputters, right before angry words come bubbling out of his mouth, unfiltered. "And who the hell are you? Just some big-eared, second-rate, _idiot _working a minimum wage job because you're too incompetent to make it anywhere else, traipsing around wearing a name-tag that says _Merlin, _too ashamed to use your own bloody name!" He's breathing hard by the end of the tirade, not sure what has made him so angry so fast.

To his utter infuriation, Merlin doesn't seem to care a twit about the insults that have just been shouted at him. In fact, as he leans on the counter, he seems almost amused. "By all means, don't hold anything back. Have any other frustrations you'd like to channel into the abuse of innocent shopkeepers you've just met?"

Irrationally, Merlin's calm drains him of his anger, leaving him limp and empty. "I'm sure I can come up with more insults, if you'd like," he says, surprised to hear how level his voice is now, more surprised by the playful grin that lights up Merlin's face.

"Of course you could, and they'd be just as bad as the first ones. I'd think that you would be better at insulting people, spoiled prat that you are. Or do you just not interact with those 'lower' than you enough?"

He opens his mouth to retort but gets cut off by a familiar voice. "Merlin, are you antagonizing the customers again? I heard shouting." They both turn towards the back of the shop, Merlin with a guilty scraping of his foot against the floor, Arthur with wide eyes. He stares as Gwen—Morgana's best friend, Lance's girlfriend, _Gwen_—emerges from a door in the back, and when she catches sight of him she stares back, her lips curling into a bright smile. "Arthur! How nice to see you!" She rushes to him, embracing him firmly. "It's been too long." It all clicks into his mind and he wants to slap himself for not remembering sooner. _Camelot Designs _is _Gwen's _shop. _That's _why he knows it. "What are you doing here?"

He grimaces. "I'm just picking up Morgana's dress and placing the order for her next one."

Gwen examines his expression. "Lost a bet, didn't you?" At his scowl she nods and pats him on the shoulder, then looks back to Merlin. "Merlin, what have I told you about arguing with the customers?"

Merlin folds his arms, raising his eyebrows at her. "Not to. I didn't think that rule extended to prats who started it."

Gwen looks back to Arthur, who flushes a little and avoids her gaze. She rolls her eyes. "Get Morgana's dress, Merlin, or I'll hand you over to _her_." The look of sudden horror on Merlin's face is priceless, he thinks, especially when he knows _exactly _how the other man feels. Merlin disappears briefly into the back and then emerges, thrusting the plastic-wrapped dress into his hands. "Does Morgana need her next order by any specific time?" At his shrug she shakes her head. "Then tell her it'll be in by the end of the week." She eyes the two of them. "I am going to go back to what I was doing. So help me God, if I have to come back out here I will fire _you_—" she thrusts a finger at Merlin, "and tell Morgana on _you_," she says with a point to Arthur. The two of them exchange chagrined looks and bow their heads to Gwen as she disappears into the back.

"I always forget that I shouldn't mess with her," Merlin says, breaking the silence. "She's my best friend, but she's scary when she's in boss mode."

"Morgana's just scary all the time."

"Truth."

They look at each other, suddenly realizing that they are having a civil conversation. Arthur drapes the dress over his arm and chews on the inside of his cheek. "I—ah, I'm sorry about yelling at you."

Merlin tilts his head. "Hm. Didn't expect an apology out of you, rich boy."

"Don't expect another one, either." He shifts his weight and then extends a hand. "I'm—"

Merlin shakes his hand and cuts him off. "Arthur Pendragon. I know. Even if I didn't know who Morgana's brother was I would've known you from the tabloids. How's Lady Sophia in bed?"

He wrinkles his nose. "Hell if I know. Bloody shrew, I wouldn't touch her if she paid me."

"For the record, my name actually _is _Merlin. Merlin Emrys."

He stares. "Your name is _Merlin _and you work at _Camelot _Designs?"

Merlin huffs, folding his arms defensively. "It's not _that _unusual. Besides, _you _are Arthur Pendragon, the prince of Round Table Corporations. I don't think you have any right to be looking at me funny."

"You may have a point," he concedes. That's two things he never does—apologizing and conceding—in less than fifteen minutes. There's something about Merlin, something familiar and easy, something comfortable, as though they've done this a hundred times before, these insults and this conversation and this easy silence. He shakes his head. "I have to go, I have to pick up Morgana's dry-cleaning."

He half-thinks that he sees a flash of disappointment in Merlin's eyes, one that is swallowed by the man's smirk. "You really are her slave, aren't you?"

"Just for a week," he grumbles. "Bloody tequila."

"Never trust the tequila. It just waits for you to let your guard down and then shanks you when it gets the chance." This draws a laugh from him and a smile from Merlin. The man reaches to the counter and picks up a sheet of paper. "Here's Morgana's pick up information for the next dress, for Friday afternoon." Merlin pauses, then continues. "Will you still be in servitude then?"

Arthur shrugs. "Probably. Unless I push her into a stove or throw water on her."

"Go with water. She'll melt for sure." Merlin smiles. "I'll see you on Friday then. I'll even let you insult me some more. Better think up some better ones, rich boy."

He meets the man's gaze squarely, feeling a smile press at the corners of his lips. "Why waste my time preparing, when it's so easy to do?" The smile emerges victorious onto his face. "See you Friday."

Perhaps being Morgana's slave won't be _that _bad.

* * *

Who wants to be my first reviewer of the New Year? It's up for grabs!


	7. Forecastle

_A/N: _Hey guys! Sorry for the delay! I ran out of my already written ficlets, haha, so I was trying to build up a surplus again. I have two and a half written, so there will be updates tomorrow and the day after that, and then there might be another update lag since I'm about to start school again. Also, sorry for the delay in review responses! I forgot to mark down which ones I had responded to and which ones I hadn't, so I'm pretty sure I missed a couple of you! If I didn't respond to you, oops, and if you send me a PM reminding me (or leave a review, haha) I'll send you a response! This is a light, humorous little ficlet, so enjoy!

_Disclaimer: _I still have two episodes of the third season to watch. Does that sound like I own it?

**18. Forecastle—**_the forward part of the upper deck of a ship; the crew's quarters usually in a ship's bow_

"Remind me why I hired you on?" Arthur asks dryly as Merlin heaves over the side of the ship.

"I hate boats. You know I hate boats," Merlin moans in between heaves, trying to glare but really looking like a kicked, sick puppy, pitiful all the way around.

Arthur sighs. "This is a _ship, _Merlin. _Not _a boat."

"Same bloody thing," Merlin says, finishing his round of sickness and slumping to the deck, resting his back against the railing, his eyes closed. "It floats on the water and is a creation of the devil. Or of Nimueh."

Arthur cracks a smile and quickly covers it with his hand. "There is a distinct difference between a ship and a boat, which I would explain to you if I didn't know that it would just go in one ear and out the other. Furthermore, I'm fairly sure that the devil was not the inventor of the ship." He pauses, tilting his head to the side. "And can't Nimueh float across the water or something?"

Merlin shrugs. "Probably." He opens his eyes. "You just _had _to volunteer to oversee this shipment, didn't you?" Arthur gives him a look like he's stupid and he glowers back. "Of course you did."

"This shipment is vital to the company's future, Merlin. It needs to go perfectly." Softer, he adds, "My father is counting on me." After that little admission he clears his throat, straightening his back. "_You_ didn't have to come."

Merlin rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. I'm just going to let you go gallivanting off across the high seas with our most expensive shipment _ever_. Without me you'd probably be chased by pirates into a hurricane, run aground on a reef, and have to take refuge on an island filled with cannibals."

"Merlin, those are things that will happen _because _you're with us."

He shrugs, not bothering to deny it, because it's probably true. "At least with me you won't get your silly, prattish head broken."

"I will have you know that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," Arthur says, drawing himself up.

Merlin raises an eyebrow, looking dubiously up at him. "Sure you can."

Arthur glares down at him. "I don't like your tone of voice, _peasant_."

Merlin grins tiredly. "Always nice to hear your class prejudices hundreds of years later, _sire_," he says, drawing out the word sarcastically.

Arthur huffs in response. "At least _I _can stand up."

Merlin glowers again. "I can stand…."

"Prove it."

There is a long silence and the ship lurches over a wave, making Merlin pale and Arthur laugh wickedly. "I _hate _you," Merlin groans as he pulls himself to his feet and leans over to throw up again. Arthur continues to laugh, shaking his head, and Merlin makes a rude hand gesture at him. "God, I hate boats."

"It's a ship, Merlin. A ship."

"Instrument of evil, you mean," Merlin mutters, then heaves again. Arthur sighs and leans over, rubbing Merlin's back gently; Merlin slumps against the rail, letting the touch soothe his churning stomach. "I promise to save your life if you do that for the rest of the trip." Without looking he knows that Arthur rolls his eyes before laughing.

"You'd do that anyway."

"Nu-uh. I'll let the cannibals have you if you stop."

Arthur chuckles low in his throat. "Anything but the cannibals." After a few more minutes Merlin straightens, a bit of color returning to his face. "Feeling better?"

"For now. Don't jinx it. Quick, distract me."

Arthur lets a grin bloom onto his face. "I have just the job for you. One you're familiar with too. It'll make you think you're back home on land again."

Merlin narrows his eyes, searching Arthur's expression. "Is it sharpening your sword and polishing things? It is, isn't it?" Arthur slings an arm over his shoulder.

"I think the sea air is good for your capacity for thought. Maybe you should be at sea all the time."

"Arthur, you know I'd do just about anything for you. But if you decide you want to become a ship captain or some nonsense like that, I _will _leave you to the cannibals. You're just not worth it."

"I'm glad to know how much you care, Merlin."

Merlin just grins at him as they disappear into the depths of the ship.

* * *

**A/N 2: **Just a quick little note. A couple of you have offered ideas for what you'd like to see, and I'd like to invite you all to do so. I have about six words that I have absolutely _no _idea what to do with, so if any of you have any particular requests please feel free to share them! I'll do my best to put them all in! Cheers!


	8. Minuet

_A/N: _Hello everyone! Quick update, yay! Thanks to my reviewers and thanks for the ideas that some of you have offered, they're great and some of them will definitely make appearances! This ficlet is partly thanks to **LiveALittleDarlin **who mentioned the idea of one of the two reincarnated as a girl, so here you go! It features Merlin as a girl, a little bit of banter, a _very _minor touch of angsty-Merlin, and a little bit of fluff. Just to give a little background to this one, it's meant to be set somewhere in either WWI or WWII, with Arthur as a soldier and Merlin as a nurse. Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: _Nope, still not mine.

_Notes: _Merlin as a girl and Arthur/Merlin pairing so...technically het wrapped over some slash, haha.

**17. Minuet**—_a slow, graceful dance in ¾ time characterized by forward balancing, bowing, and toe pointing_

Arthur straightens his sleeve and cuts through the swirling circles of dancers, across the ballroom to the other side where he catches Lance's arm. His friend is just leading Gwen out onto the floor but stops at his touch, glancing at him. "Have you seen Mary?" Arthur asks, leaning in so that his voice will be heard over the music and chatter but so he's not yelling in Lance's face.

Lance nods his head towards the balcony door. "I saw her go that way."

"She said she needed some air," Gwen offers, giving him a tight smile that dulls to a frown. "She's—"

"I know," Arthur interjects. "You two go dance."

Lance gives Gwen a besotted smile, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it. Normally, Arthur would roll his eyes, but tonight is different. "Yes sir," Lance says to him, and then guides his girlfriend out to join the other dancers.

Arthur faces the balcony doors, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. Then he shakes his head and steps forward, opening them and slipping away from the bright warmth out into the cool night, closing the door quietly behind him to hush the music and the sounds. Mary is at the far end of the balcony, leaning on the railing looking out. Her hair curls over her shoulders and down her back; he's sure that the marble is cool against her bare arms, but she doesn't show any sign of being cold. He walks towards her, and though she stirs a bit at the sound of footsteps, she doesn't turn.

"Are you going to avoid me all night?" He asks.

"Still thinking that everything is about _you_, Arthur?"

He steps closer, into the sphere of her personal space, and despite himself he half-smiles. "Isn't it?"

She still doesn't turn, but her hands clench on the railing, slipping over the marble as they try to find steadiness. "I can't save you this time, Arthur," she says softly.

He takes a breath and steps closer, touching her shoulder. She's stiff beneath his touch, but as he slips an arm around her waist she softens, curling into him. "I don't need saving from anything," he says into the curvature of her neck.

"Yet," is her retort and he smiles. She turns in his grip, letting him encircle her, and tilts her head up to meet his gaze. It always surprises him how _short _she is, how the top of her head tucks in under his chin, how he can hold her safe from the rest of the world. "I can't follow you, waiting for when you get yourself into trouble. I can't be there waiting." She grabs a fold of his jacket tight, desperation hot in her ever-changing green eyes. "You're going _alone_."

He cups her cheek, brushing his thumb gently across her skin. "You can't always protect me."

She scowls at him. "I'm _supposed _to. I've protected you over hundreds of lives, Arthur. It's not _fair_—"

He silences her with a kiss. She growls against his lips but if anything, her grip on his jacket gets tighter rather than pushing him away. When he pulls back she opens her mouth to say something further but he touches a finger to her lips, knowing that her lipstick will leave red on his skin. "It's my turn to talk. You've had hundreds of years to chatter on at me, _Merlin_." She makes a face at him, but stays silent. "Of course it's not fair. It never is. But I _am _competent at what I do, if you'll remember correctly. I don't _need _you to protect me. Just like you don't need me to protect you. Although, it _is _you…."

"You're not funny. You've never _been _funny."

He grins. "I'm _hilarious_, and you know it."

She pushes out of his arms, folding her own over her chest. "I swear to God, Arthur Pendragon, if you get yourself killed because I'm not around to save your royal behind I will be _very _upset with you. And if you get yourself hurt and end up in my hospital, I'll kill you myself."

He takes her hand, intertwining their fingers. "I'll be careful."

She turns away for a brief moment, hiding her face. "You'd better."

He mimics Lance's actions from earlier, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing it. "I will." He gives her his best smile. "Dance with me?"

She purses her lips, surveying what she finds in his gaze. "I'll step on your foot," she finally says, and it is part warning, part promise, part acceptance.

"I expect nothing less of you," he replies, and steals another kiss before leading her back inside.

* * *

Remember, that if you have any requests or ideas I will gladly take them!


	9. Fluidly

_A/N: _Hello again! Thank you once again to all of my lovely reviewers! This is another humorous little ficlet that came about when I was bored and messing around on the website _Doll Divine_. (I swear I'm not twenty and playing online dress up games when I'm bored. Really. It's all a figment of your imagination. Blame my roommates, it's _their _fault!) Anyway, they have a dragon maker and while I was playing around with it I thought to myself, I should make Merlin and Arthur as dragons. So I did, haha. And then I wrote this! This will probably be the last update for a couple of days-I'm moving back into my apartment for school tomorrow, and my classes start next Tuesday, so updates might be a bit sporadic. I'll try to get a longer one up on Monday for you guys, but after that I'm not really sure. Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: _Insert obligated disclaimer here.

**12. Fluidly—**_having particles that easily move; capable of flowing; subject to change or movement_

"Merlin…," Arthur says, his voice slow and heavy and slightly echoing, and in response Merlin gives his best innocent, wide-eyed look. _(It won't work and he knows it, but it's worth a try.) _"Would you like to explain exactly what in the _hell _you've done to me?"

"Er…." That's actually a _really _good question. Because while Arthur Pendragon is standing in front of him—giving him a _very _intimidating glare, mind you, not that it really has any effect on him anymore—he doesn't exactly look like the Prince Arthur that he knows. In fact, he's pretty sure that no one would _ever_ recognize him.

"Mer_lin_," Arthur growls, and Merlin jumps. Normally when Arthur growls at him it's almost amusing, but right now it is…well, rather intimidating. Which might have something to do with the fact that Arthur—Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot, His Royal Pratness, Future King—is a dragon. "You have five seconds to tell me why I have _claws_."

"Um…," he says, and when Arthur glares at him this time, he bites on the inside of his cheek. Arthur Death Glares are a bit more effective when they come from a bloody _dragon_. "You may or may not be a dragon," he blurts out, wincing.

Arthur stares at him. In this moment of the prince's speechlessness, he takes the opportunity to look over Arthur's dragon form. While Arthur is most definitely a dragon—after all, Merlin is a Dragonlord, and if _he _doesn't know a dragon who in the hell does?—he's not the same kind of dragon as Kilgharrah. He has the same reptilian kind of head as the Great Dragon, but he's _much _smaller—though that doesn't keep him from towering over Merlin—and the lines of his body are built more along the lines of one of Arthur's favorite hounds, elegant and slim. His wings are leathery and bat-like but somehow delicate and they look _soft_; his coloring, typically, is Pendragon red, highlighted with dark blue on his horns, the spikes along his tail, and the underside of his wings. He's a very _pretty _dragon, much flashier than Kilgharrah.

Apparently Arthur's mind finally catches up to the situation, because he sputters—sending sparks flying from his snout—and snarls at Merlin, showing off his fangs. Merlin gulps but stands his ground. "What do you _mean_, I'm a _dragon_?"

"To be fair, I said you may or may _not _be a dragon," he says before he can stop his mouth from spouting off. Arthur is not amused.

"What did you _do_?"

He shrugs. "I was working on a protection spell and it must have somehow gone awry…hmm."

"Are you that much of a blundering idiot, that instead of working a protection you _turned me into a dragon_?" Arthur shouts, making him frown.

"In my defense, you probably are much better protected as a dragon than you are as your normal prat self. I mean, you can fly and probably breathe fire and your scales should serve as armor, so really I wasn't _that _far off."

Arthur snorts sparks of fire at him, and this time he's fairly sure that it is _not _an accident. He dodges and kicks dirt over a patch of grass that catches fire. "Merlin," the dragon prince says in a deceptively calm voice, "you have five minutes to change me back and then I'm eating you."

"Now, let's not get testy—"

"_Testy_? I'm the crown prince of a kingdom that has banned magic and my bumbling, _idiot _of a manservant—who just _happens _to be a warlock—accidentally turned me into a bloody _dragon_!" Arthur shakes his head, snorting more fire from his nostrils. "I changed my mind. I'm eating you right now."

"If you eat me—or set me on fire, stop _doing _that you prat!—you'll be stuck as a dragon. So just hush and let me figure this out. Go…fly or something." He waves a hand and Arthur looks extremely tempted to just reach out and bite it off. Just in case, Merlin snatches his hand back and glares.

"Yes, let me go fly over Camelot, incite a panic, have my father and the knights out here searching for me, get myself either killed or trapped in a bloody cavern under the castle—." The dragon stalks away, muttering under his breath, and Merlin rolls his eyes. He sits cross-legged on the ground, spreading a piece of paper out in front of him.

"Now, where did I go wrong?"

_(Idly he wonders if his Dragonlord powers work over humans transformed into dragons…he'll save that thought for another day.) _

_

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Ideas? Requests? Questions, comments, concerns? Feel free to share them! Oh, and a question-in the upcoming chapters would you like to see more angsty ficlets or lighter ones or a mix of both?


	10. Gesture

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the wait! Like I mentioned last time, I started school again and it consumed my soul. It'll probably happen again too, particularly since this is the only chapter that I have fully written at the moment. I'm working on the rest, but they're all in bits and pieces since I've been focusing on other things. Thank you to all of my reviewers, and sorry that I didn't get around to responding to most of you! I really appreciate every review you leave, and thanks for all the ideas you've given me! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I'm a college student. I don't own _anything_.

Warnings: Slash. A couple of the others have been implied slash, but this one is definitely slash. Nothing explicit, entirely fluffy, but still slash, so if it's not your taste just skip on over it.

**13. Gesture—**_a movement usually of the body or limbs that expresses or emphasizes an idea, sentiment, or attitude_

At six o'clock on his birthday, Merlin is kidnapped by Arthur. Of course, he fails to realize the extent of this kidnapping until approximately two and a half hours later, the delay caused by a birthday dinner at his favorite restaurant. It's after this—after he manages to leverage himself out of the chair, roll himself out of the building, and then heave himself into Arthur's car, feeling as though he has gained at least twenty _delicious _pounds—when he is singing tunelessly along to the radio and glancing out the window, that he notices something is odd.

They are not going the right direction.

He feels that it is necessary to point this out to Arthur. "Er, we aren't going the right way."

Arthur keeps his eyes steadily on the road. "And where, exactly, are we supposed to be going?"

He's missing something. He's definitely missing something. "To…to Gwen's house…right?"

Arthur gives him a sideways grin. "Why would we be going to Gwen's house?"

He blinks. "For my surprise birthday party?"

"You're not supposed to know about that, you know. Ergo the _surprise_."

He rolls his eyes. "I love Gwen to death, but she's about as transparent as glass when it comes to keeping secrets. And Morgana may be terrifying and probably a M12 agent, but you can always tell when she's planning a party. She gets all high pitched and squeaky." He glances out the window. "I note that you haven't turned the car around. Are we too early? You should have said something, because I think I could have fit another course in."

"You would have _exploded_, Merlin."

"But it would have been worth it." Arthur does not contest this point. Who can, when faced with such gastronomic perfection? Nevertheless, the car does not turn around. Arthur's hands don't even twitch on the steering wheel. "Okay, is the party being held somewhere else? I _know _there's a party, Arthur. You can't pull one over on me."

"Merlin, you're the second most gullible person I know. Of _course _I can pull one over on you. But no, there is a party, and it is at Gwen's house."

He raises an eyebrow, looking out the window. "So…why are we still going the wrong way?"

Arthur smiles. It's a wicked, wicked expression. Merlin should be afraid and he knows it. "We aren't going to Gwen's. Well, at least not right now. By the time we do get there all the booze will probably be gone."

He turns in his seat to fully face the blonde man. "Arthur Pendragon," he says slowly, "are you _kidnapping _me?"

Arthur takes his gaze off the road long enough to turn and unleash that wicked grin on him. "Kidnapping is such an ugly word, but if that's the way you'd like to phrase it…yes."

Merlin allows himself a brief moment of silence to digest this. Then: "Where are we going?"

Arthur does not reply, merely presses his foot to the gas pedal.

Merlin gets his answer to the question about half an hour later, when Arthur makes a turn and he suddenly knows _exactly _where they are going. He swivels in his seat, turning to stare at the blonde man. "Are we seriously going where I think we're going?"

"You don't think, Merlin," Arthur says, but he's smiling again. "We'll be there in about ten minutes."

Merlin tries _very _hard not to bounce up and down in his seat and tries even harder to keep the all-encompassing grin off his face. But if Arthur is pulling one over on him and they _aren't _going to where he thinks they are…well, there will be a dead Arthur Pendragon in a ditch on the side of the road. Thankfully, homicide is not necessary, because they pull onto the long stretch of road framed by trees and the peak of a rollercoaster juts over the horizon. _(There's no stopping the grin. It bursts over his face, full of boyish exuberance and Arthur's grin matches it.) _

As they pull up to the parking lot—the _empty _parking lot, a thing that he has never seen—and he peers out at the rather dark amusement park, he suddenly frowns and sits back. _(He's not going to pout, he's really not.) _"Uh, Arthur? I think you may have overlooked the fact that it's eight-thirty at night. And March. Camelot doesn't open until the second week of April."

Arthur parks the car, turns off the engine, and swivels in his seat to look at him. "Do you honestly think that little of me, Merlin?" He says with a smirk, voice thick with amusement. And just like that, Camelot lights up. Merlin stares out the window in amazement as all the brilliant colored lights blink on. He turns back to Arthur, knowing that his mouth is hanging open and not caring. His lips move in a silent question—_how?_—and Arthur answers it before he can speak it aloud. "I know the owner's son and I called in a favor. Are we going to sit in the car all night, or are we going to take Camelot by storm?"

His grin _just _might make his head explode if it gets any bigger. "Race you to the gate?" He says, and then throws open the door and runs without waiting for a response.

Arthur beats him, barely, and only because he cheats. _(Okay, okay, actually Merlin trips and Arthur just takes advantage of his clumsiness, but still.) _At the gate, a young woman greets them. "Hello, you must be Arthur and Merlin. My name is Ellie. Zachary sent me to be your guide and ride operator for the night." They both smile at her, Merlin leaning in for a whispered conversation of _"Who's Zachary?" "The owner's son." "Ah, okay." _She waves a hand, welcoming them into the park. "Where to first?"

He and Arthur exchange identical grins. "The Great Dragon," they chorus together. Merlin slips his hand into Arthur's and tugs him along, pulling him excitedly in the direction of the rollercoaster. After all, he knows this park like the back of his hand. Ellie follows along behind them at a much more sedate pace, but her giggle seems to suggest that she finds their actions amusing. They race to the rollercoaster and up the stairs.

"I'll get the ride up, just give me a second," Ellie says, and goes over to the console, pushing buttons. Merlin cranes his neck around every which way, acting as if he's never been to the park in his entire life, then becomes aware that Arthur is watching him and blushes. Arthur shakes his head, grinning, and then bends down to rummage around in a bag at his feet.

"Where did you get that from?"

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "The backseat of my car. You took off too fast to notice me grab it, idiot." Merlin sticks his tongue out and then his expression yields to astonishment again as Arthur pulls two glasses and a bottle of wine from the bag. He pours and hands one of the glasses to Merlin, straightening up. "Do you remember?"

"Of _course _I remember," Merlin says, wrapping his fingers around the stem of the glass. "And I see that you provided glasses this time. We're moving up in the world."

"Drinking straight from the bottle is an abuse of wine. Even cheap wine."

"It _was _cheap, wasn't it?"

Arthur grins. "The cheapest. But then again, we were fifteen and sneaking wine into an amusement park, so the situation didn't really call for _good _wine. Happy birthday, Merlin," he says and they clink glasses as the rollercoaster car rolls up beside them. They turn to look at Ellie, who winks at them.

"You're good to go as soon as you're ready."

Merlin tosses back what is in his glass and waits patiently as Arthur slowly—maddeningly slow—drinks his glass down. Then Merlin seizes the blonde's hand and pulls him into the car, pulling the lap bar down and squirming in the seat with excitement. Ellie comes over and checks their restraints, then returns to the console. "All ready?" Arthur nods and Merlin gives an excited thumbs-up, receiving a grin in return. "Have fun," she says, and pushes a button.

The rollercoaster moves forward on the track, tilting them up towards the velvet sky and the stars. As they climb, the wind rushing around them, the clack of the wheels on the track roaring loud, Arthur takes Merlin's hand, and then the sky erupts into color. Fireworks burst into life as they climb higher and higher and when Merlin turns his head he knows who he has to thank, because Arthur is looking at him with this silly little grin and he's blushing—Merlin can't see for sure, but he _knows—_and as they reach the crest of the hill, tilting over the edge and waiting for the rest of the train to catch up, Arthur leans over and kisses him.

All Merlin knows is that that moment is perfect. That moment where the fireworks sizzle color into the night, where there is only the sky around them, where they are perfectly suspended, weightless in the air, floating before gravity will pull them back down, where his breath is caught and his heart is somewhere in his throat and he is kissing Arthur who loves him so much that he did all of _this_—this is the most perfect moment that he has ever known.

The rollercoaster releases and plunges them down and his lips are torn away from Arthur's so that he can scream his delight to the entire world, and over the roar he shouts _I love you _and feels Arthur's hand tighten around his own. When the train finally rolls back into the station he stumbles out, feeling shaky, and slips right into Arthur's arms, kissing him hard, and against Arthur's lips he murmurs three words. "Best. Birthday. _Ever_."

Arthur laughs until he can't breathe, and then pulls Merlin back into the car for another go.

* * *

For the record, this one-shot is based on a dream I had. Of course, in the dream it wasn't Arthur and Merlin, it was me and some random dream person, but the basics of the dream are the same. And, if you've ever been to Six Flags Great Adventure in New Jersey, the rollercoaster _Nitro_ is the model for the one here, since it is my favorite rollercoaster EVER.


	11. Rupture

A/N: OH MY GOD I'M SO SORRY FOR THE DISAPPEARING ACT. Ahem. School completely destroyed me and I signed up for the Merlin Big Bang on LJ, so I've been working on _that_, and I'm in the middle of job hunting and...-hangs head in shame- I am very, very sorry, lovely readers. For not updating in two and a half months and for not responding to your reviews. I am a terrible person and I promise I will try to do better this time! So, to make up for it, I give you two chapters for the price of one, and another two over the course of the weekend. I will really try to bang out the rest of these chapters as soon as possible. I'm in the home stretch of this semester so after the beginning of May fics will take close to top priority, and hopefully I will finally be able to finish this. Enjoy!

Warnings: Er, minor character death, pre-slash/slash/if you really want to read it as just friendship ignore that one part and have at it. Also, probably a great many inaccuracies considering feudalism and feudal-era England.

Disclaimer: Two and a half months later and no, I still don't own anything.

**20. Rupture—**_breach of peace or accord; the tearing apart of tissue; a breaking apart or state of being broken apart_

The night that Arthur is meant to marry Lady Vivian ends in fire. The marriage is meant to bring an end to the war that has shuddered its way through both of their lands, a reluctant union to try and heal what has been broken. But there is treachery afoot, and not everyone is as honorable as the Pendragons—_(honorable does not mean good, Merlin always has to think when he places the word next to Uther Pendragon. Good men are not always honorable, and honorable men are not always good, and Uther is the second. Arthur, though, is both)—_and the end of the ceremony is interrupted by a whisper of cloth, a cry, the clash of steel and the roar of brave men dying and the crackle of flames.

Uther Pendragon is dead and Arthur abandons the castle in order to save his men.

Camelot burns.

* * *

In the study of the manor of one of the lords—_his _lords, now that his father is dead, he must remember that—Arthur paces. A map is spread over the desk and he glances at it from time to time, hoping to see that it will have somehow changed, that it will reveal to him something that he has missed. The candle is burning itself down into a pool of wax and soon he'll have to summon a servant to bring him another, or else call it a night and turn in.

As if summoned by the thought the door opens. He half turns, long enough to recognize the figure that slips in, and then turns away again, striding to stand in front of the window. Slowly the dark room brightens behind him; he can see the shadows cast on the wall.

"You'll ruin your eyesight, squinting in the dark all the time."

He shakes his head, turning on his heel. "My eyesight is the least of my concerns, Merlin."

The servant shrugs. "Nevertheless, you're not going to do anyone any good if you go blind at twenty-five."

"If I live to see twenty-five," he mutters under his breath, ignoring the sharp look that Merlin gives him.

"Have you thought of anything?" Merlin says, the tone in his voice saying that he's going to gloss over the muttered comment because it isn't worth acknowledging, and Arthur almost smiles. Then he shakes his head, sighing, and comes to sit at the desk, burying his head in his hands. A plate slides itself under his nose and he glares down at the offering of cheese and bread, glares at Merlin—who just gives him a raised eyebrow and a toothy smile in response—and then he lifts a piece of bread, tearing into it with more violence than necessary. Merlin takes this as a response to his question and hums a little, leaning on the edge of the desk. The impropriety doesn't bother him, although it probably should. It has _never _bothered him, though he can't put a finger on why. For as long as Merlin has been his servant, once they've been out of sight—or, mostly out of sight—all the barriers of rank have dropped between them. They keep up appearances in public, but even then, he treats Merlin closer to a knight or bailiff than a servant.

"What about the king?"

He takes another bite of bread and scowls at Merlin. "An amusing thought, Merlin. The king would only concern himself with the feuds of his nobility if he thought we were conspiring against _him_. But we are free to conspire against each other as much as we like. Oh, I'm sure he will…_fine _Olaf for murdering one of his Dukes, but he won't trouble himself any further than that. He can't risk choosing sides between his own nobles, lest the rest of them turn against him." He shakes his head. "No, there is no help from the king."

"Isn't he supposed to be pledged to come to your aid or something like that?"

"I always forget what an idealist you are, Merlin."

Merlin clenches his jaw, frowning. "_You _come to the aid of your knights, when they ask for it."

He props his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, too tired to keep holding it upright without support. "Yes, because the knights are our major source of military support. If we didn't support them in strife then we would have no military when _we _needed it."

Merlin folds his arms. "And what about the villages you give aid to?"

He sighs. "Do you happen to recall how many times I had to persuade my father to give that aid? Do you remember how many times I went against his word in order to do so?" Though Merlin doesn't say anything, Arthur can see in his face that _yes, he remembers_. "Just because _I _happen to believe that a noble is entitled to help all those under his rule, that doesn't mean the rest of nobility shares the same feelings. That is part of why we were at war with Olaf. His attempts to expand are purely greed—he wants to expand his military power, his political influence, and his treasury. While _we _are protecting our people and our lands."

Merlin looks away, hiding a tiny smile. Arthur knows that smile, that one he gets sometimes, the one that says his servant is _proud _of some obnoxiously noble thing he has just said. _(Secretly, whenever he sees that little smile, he feels proud to have made Merlin proud, which is a silly thing, isn't it? Wanting to make a servant proud of him?) _Then Merlin looks back at him, the smile gone and something guarded in his eyes. "You keep saying _we_."

He frowns. "Of course I do. We. Us." He waves to encompass their surroundings. "Our people, our knights, our—"

"_Yours_," Merlin interrupts, and Arthur falters.

"What?"

"They aren't 'our' knights. They're _yours_. _Your _people. _Your _land. _Your _knights and your fief and your rule." Confused, Arthur looks at him in silence, and Merlin sighs. "Either you're using the royal plural—which you're not and it probably didn't even cross your mind to, because you're a pompous arse but not _that _pompous—or you're still thinking of yourself as sharing your leadership." Arthur flinches a little, realizing where he's going with this, and Merlin takes a breath before actually saying it. "Your father is _dead_." Arthur outright jerks, even though he knew it was coming, and Merlin ignores the glare he gives him. "You're the Duke of Camelot now. These are your lands and your people, not anyone else's. Not 'ours', though I appreciate the inclusion." Merlin gives him a little sly smile and Arthur just shakes his head at it. "Keep that in mind, Arthur. You are in charge. Olaf has no claim to this land, but _you _do. You have claim and you have right and you have the love for it that he doesn't even understand."

"I remember what I'm fighting for, Merlin," Arthur says, a little sulkily, and the servant gives him a winning smile.

"Of course you do. I didn't expect you to _forget_, but…you were betrayed, you were run out of your home, and you lost your father. After all that, sometimes the things you already know have to be said. You wouldn't forget them, but they might get…lost. And now they're not."

He stares at his servant, blinking. He always forgets how absurdly _wise _the other man can be sometimes. Merlin's smile relaxes into something softer, less teeth and less force and more fondness, more compassion, more pride. Arthur raises his gaze from that smile to Merlin's eyes and makes a smile of his own, reaching out to loop his fingers around Merlin's bony wrist. "Thank you," he says, and Merlin turns his wrist in his grip, maneuvering his own fingers in a mimicking position to wrap around Arthur's wrist.

"Any time," the man says, holding both his gaze and his wrist tightly.

* * *

The night before they leave to ride out to battle, Arthur knows that Merlin is watching him from across the room. For a little while, he makes no comment of it, instead copying the map in front of him in near perfect detail and plotting the route of their troop movements. Finally though, he lifts his head, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and glances over.

"What?"

Merlin looks at him, his expression unreadable. He is chewing absently on his bottom lip, his eyes far away, and though he is staring straight at him, Arthur has the feeling that he is seeing something else entirely. "Merlin?" He says, and now Merlin jolts, coming out of his reverie to stare at him.

"Mm?"

Arthur smiles a little. "You're staring."

"Oh." Merlin says, and tilts his head.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks. He knows the train of his own thoughts: _armies, battle, war, Olaf, Uther dying on a stone floor, Camelot burning, himself leaning in to kiss Vivian and seal peace, (or **is** it Vivian? Vivian whose hair shortens and darkens, whose dark blue eyes lighten to pale misty green, whose curves sharpen, and he's not kissing Vivian anymore, he is kissing someone that he loves so much more than her—)_. He shakes his head, pulling out of his thoughts with a sharp inhale of breath, and he shifts, looking at Merlin, waiting for an answer.

"You," is the short response, and it makes him gasp again. Merlin grins at him, crooking a finger. "Come over here and let me cut your hair."

"_What_?"

"Come here and let me cut your hair," Merlin repeats, slower this time as though speaking to a child who doesn't understand, and Arthur scowls at him. "You look like a vagabond. You can't ride off to war looking like a vagabond."

Arthur gapes, then raises a hand to touch his hair, frowning. Sure, it's gotten a little _long_, but it's not _that _bad.

"The beard has to go as well. What kind of duke has a scraggly beard like that? You're not going into battle with that _thing _on your face."

Now Arthur touches his beard, which, okay, is maybe a little patchy and unruly, but he's sure it could be worse. He folds his arms. "At least I can _grow _a beard," he snaps, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue.

Merlin sniffs. "I could, if I wanted. Unlike you, however, I'm smart enough to know when something is _not _a good look for me. Now get over here. I'm cutting your hair and shaving your beard and I'm really not going to take no for an answer."

"It's _my _hair."

Merlin gives him a slanted grin. "And I'm one of the people that has to stare at it. You're our fearless leader and you have to look your best." Arthur pouts his lips and drags his feet but he slouches his way over to his servant and stands in front of him. Merlin grins at him, grabs his wrist to jerk him a little closer, and then reaches one of his long limbs up to press gently on Arthur's shoulder, guiding him down.

"You've _got _to be kidding me," Arthur mutters, but allows Merlin to maneuver him down into a sitting position at his feet. He resists at first—his nobility rising up for a second and protesting the position of submission before a servant—but then he sighs and sinks to the floor at Merlin's feet.

"You trust me?" Merlin says quietly, and though he knows it is half-joke, he responds automatically.

"Yes."

He can practically _feel _Merlin's smile behind him, and then he feels the man's fingers card gently through his hair, massaging his scalp. He leans into the touch unconsciously, feeling knots of tension in his back and neck loosen. Merlin continues these motions for a few moments and then places his fingers at the base of Arthur's skull, straightening his neck. "Hold still," the servant orders, and then he hears the snip of scissors and feels the closeness of sharp steel to his skin. The sense of it makes him want to tense, but Merlin's thumb on the back of his neck and the slow stroke of it makes him relax again, closing his eyes. "Tilt your head forward," Merlin says softly, and he obeys. Little clumps of hair fall across his skin and Merlin sweeps them away.

"You're going to win," Merlin says, and it is just a whisper of breath across his skin.

"How do you know?"

"I just do. Intuition. You're a great man, Arthur Pendragon, and you will be victorious." The shish of the scissors stops and Arthur feels fingers go through his hair again, dislodging loose hairs and brushing them away. "Better," Merlin declares, pulling his hands away. _(Arthur squashes down the noise of discontent that rises in his throat at the lost of contact.) _"Turn around." He does, using his hands to leverage himself off the ground enough to turn without standing. Merlin tilts his head to survey him carefully. "Bangs first, beard second. Don't go jerking around," he says, picking up the scissors again. Arthur watches the scissors skim across his bangs, watches the threads of his hair that fall, slides his eyes down the slender fingers and up the thin wrist, along the pale expanse of forearm and up until he finds Merlin's face. The man's tongue is just poking through his lips, an expression of concentration, and his eyes are on his movements. When he is done, he glances down and finds Arthur watching; he grins lopsidedly and ruffles the noble's hair. "Done. Now, grab that chair and bring it close," he says, nodding to a chair at the table.

Arthur does it without hesitation, pulling the chair over and sitting in it, leaving a little space between them. Merlin shakes his head and hooks the front legs of the chair around his ankles, pulling himself closer so that there is barely any room between them. _(Arthur swallows and hopes that Merlin doesn't notice.) _Then he pulls over a bowl of water on the table closer and picks up a razor.

"Still trust me?" Merlin asks, with more blue than normal in his eyes, a reflection of Arthur's color. He doesn't say anything in response, just smiles and leans forward, turning his head to reveal the expanse of his throat. _(It's Merlin's turn to gulp, and Arthur __**does**__ notice.) _Merlin reaches out and grasps his chin gently, turning his head; he dips his fingers in the water and drags them over his cheek and jaw, then dips the razor in. He takes a breath before placing the blade against Arthur's neck.

"Hold still," he whispers, and cannot bring himself to breathe as he draws the edge upward over Arthur's skin. _(If Arthur can't breathe either, well, he has a blade against his skin and that's reason enough, isn't it?) _Merlin's motions are slow and careful and steady, his eyes focused; he lifts the razor, rinses it off, and turns Arthur's head to reach the other side. Neither of them says a word, but Arthur is acutely aware of Merlin's fingers at the curve of his throat, of his thumb at his hollowed pulse point, of the sharpness of the steel against his skin, of his life literally in Merlin's hand.

Merlin lifts the blade and rinses it again, then takes a soft cloth and runs it over Arthur's skin, removing stray hair and remnants of water. _(There is a tremor in his hands that was never there when holding razor or scissors.) _He places the cloth on the table and sits back, clearing his throat and skirting Arthur's eyes. "Well then, all done. Much more noble now."

Arthur doesn't say anything, just sits forward, pressing into the space that Merlin has abandoned, reaching forward tentatively to take one of Merlin's hands in his own. Merlin stiffens a little but doesn't reject the touch. He _does_, however, avoid his gaze, at least until Arthur extends his other hand to cup his jaw and tilt his head up, forcing him to look. Finally, he does.

_(They swallow in unison, their lips part for breath at the same time, they blink together, they fall into the patterns of connection without notice.) _

"You're going to win, Arthur," Merlin says.

Arthur rubs his thumb across the sharp edge of Merlin's cheekbone. "Thank you, Merlin."

Merlin leans forward and Arthur falls in at the same time, and they rest their foreheads against each other.

"Any time," he whispers.

_(Arthur knows he means it. He can hear all the promise in those words. And he knows that he will win.) _

* * *

And on to the next!


	12. Descry

A/N: I said almost everything in the last author's note, so this will be quite brief. I'll explain where this idea came from at the bottom, so as not to spoil the rather unsubtle joke, haha. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Still no.

Warnings: Slash.

**9. Descry—**_to catch sight of; find, discover_

When Arthur comes slouching into the house after work, Merlin is _finally _able to pull himself off of the exercise machine that he's been working on for the past _three hours_. He releases the machine controls and steps down gratefully, heading straight for the nearest couch. Halfway there he suddenly finds himself rerouted towards the kitchen and frowns. Sure, he's hungry, but really, he wants nothing more than to _sit _for at least a couple of minutes. But for some reason he can't resist the compulsion to head towards the kitchen, so he does so with a sigh.

He roots around in the fridge for a couple of moments before pulling an instant meal and he turns towards the counter. Which is completely full. Arthur is there, already preparing his own meal, and there is literally no room _anywhere _for Merlin to make his own preparations. He scowls and stomps his feet—Arthur ignores him, looking so tired that he might just keel over—and then he stalks over the kitchen table, sitting gratefully. Arthur joins him after a minute and they eat in silence.

"How was work?" He asks after he has finished shoveling food into his face.

"Fine," Arthur replies, and opens his mouth like he's going to start a conversation, then abruptly stands and walks away, leaving his plate on the table.

Merlin rolls his eyes and gathers it up, taking it to the sink to wash it. He has half a mind to go and lay on the couch and just relax, but instead he ends up following Arthur around. Literally _following _him from room to room, even into the bathroom where Arthur screeches at him to get out for a few minutes and he stares dumbly, not understanding for some reason. He just wants to talk. Why can't they talk while Arthur is in the bathroom?

After Arthur finally kicks him out of the bathroom, takes a shower, makes a giant puddle on the bathroom floor and just _leaves _it, meaning that Merlin has to break out the mop, they eventually end up in the middle of their living room, talking. They're right in the middle of talking about alien abductions, and then about how Mrs. Winters three houses down ran away with the pool boy, and then Merlin is reaching out—certainly _not _of his own volition—to tickle Arthur. His friend giggles, blushes, and then caresses his arm. Merlin tells him a _horrible _joke, Arthur gives him a backrub, and then, out of nowhere, they are passionately kissing.

Well. _That's _never happened before. He pulls back with a goofy grin and goes to say something but Arthur just turns and walks away from him as if nothing happened at all. A little put out, he follows, trying to engage in a conversation again. Arthur heads straight for his bedroom and Merlin pauses at the threshold. Something urges him in though, so he walks forward. And you know, he _is _a bit tired. He changes into his pajamas and climbs into bed right next to Arthur, who shifts and makes a little noise, but apparently, there is absolutely nothing odd about climbing into bed with your best friend that you just snogged.

Of course, then Arthur reaches over and kisses him again and then clothes are flying and _is that a giant heart hovering over the bed? _and Merlin really doesn't stop to think after that. Later, when he is spent and Arthur is sprawled next to him he glances over.

"Arthur?"

"Mm?"

"Have you ever noticed anything…_weird _about our lives?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Like…like you're being controlled by someone. You're doing something and then all of a sudden you just _have _to do something else. Or you can't _stop _doing something."

"That's crazy, Merlin."

"Is it? What about how things just appear and disappear out of nowhere?"

"Clearly you're hallucinating."

He sits up, glaring at the other man. "Really? Is that why you peed yourself twice yesterday because there was a chair in front of the door to the bathroom and you couldn't get around it?"

Arthur blushes bright red. "I thought we agreed to _never talk about that_," he hisses. Then he folds his arms, pouting. "Besides, the chair was in the way. How could I get to the door with that chair in the way?"

"Did you ever think about, say, _moving _the chair?"

"You're talking about the impossible here, Merlin. You haven't hit your head on anything today, have you?"

Merlin slumps back against the pillows. "I guess you're right. It's just, sometimes it seems so _odd_, our lives."

"You're just tired. Get some sleep," Arthur says, and Merlin nods, closing his eyes. But when he opens them again he is _sure _that he sees a giant green _thing _hovering over his head. He freezes, but it disappears from sight quickly. Slowly, he sits up in bed, glancing around the room.

"Arthur?" The man next to him grunts in response. "Was that pinball machine there before?"

"It had to be. Things don't just _appear, _Merlin. You're just talking crazy right now. Clearly, it's sleep deprivation. No one is _controlling _us. Just…go to sleep!"

Merlin folds his arms again, tapping a finger on his forearm. "Arthur?"

Arthur sits upright in a huff, glaring at him. "_What_?"

"The microwave in the corner is on fire. And the door is gone."

Arthur looks at the flames creeping up the side of the wall and then at the empty expanse of wall where the door used to be. "Huh."

"If you survive," Merlin declares, "I am going to haunt you so much."

"I suppose I deserve that."

"You do. You really do."

They look at the fire rapidly spreading towards them.

"Well," Arthur says after a moment. "We could either run around in a complete panic and die like screaming idiots _or_…"

"Have sex again?" Merlin says, still watching the flames.

"Yep."

Merlin takes a moment to consider, then crooks a finger at Arthur. "Since those are the only two options that we have, I'm definitely going to say sex."

"Good call."

* * *

A/N 2: Hehe, so I started writing this one after seeing the trailer for the new _Sims Medieval _game, because my first thought (naturally) was, "I can make Arthur and Merlin and do all _kinds _of things to them". This isn't my favorite one-shot, but I think it's kind of funny. I'm not really happy with the last couple of lines, but oh well. So, have I made you happy with my revival, dear readers and lurkers?


	13. Abominable

A/N: Okay, so a couple of days later than I had intended, but here you go!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Warnings: Angsty angst, character death, dark!Merlin, implied slash

**8. Abominable—**_worthy of causing disgust or hatred, detestable_

This life ends, as so many do, in pain and blood and murder. The difference is, that instead of Mordred standing over Arthur, dealing the final deadly blow before meeting his own end—_the cycle that has played out over and over, shifting slightly, shifting drastically, but still held as inevitable—_it is Merlin. Merlin whose eyes pulsate between brightest gold and pure black, who needs no weapon other than the forces of the world around him, who holds his hand outright and reigns destruction upon the person he hates most in the world. Mordred stands just behind him, laughing, running hands over him, and there is no contesting who has won. Morgana is running towards them, too late, far too late, the images of what was supposed to be and what is pulsing behind her eyes, and she sees Arthur fall twice. Once, he is caught by Merlin, cradled, caressed, held—but this blinks out in favor of reality, where Arthur slumps forward, blood trickling from his mouth, and there is no one to catch him except for the soft embrace of the muddy ground.

Mordred laughs, and Merlin—when the magic pulls back under his skin, letting the color come back to his eyes—joins in with him. Their laughter mixes with the shrieking calls of carrion birds come to feast, and Morgana clamps her hands over her ears. _Too late, too late._

There is no telling how this lifetime goes so terribly wrong, but this is a reality that should never exist as it does. This is not to say that fate has never twisted unexpectedly before, not to say that there is one set path for King and Warlock, not to say that things have never gone wrong. They have suffered through the lifetimes. Fate plans out her paths carefully, setting her pawns in proper order each time, creating perfect paths to follow and then letting go, and after that they are privy to the other forces of the world. She tries to keep her creations to their paths, but there are thousands of variables, hundreds of intangible forces that push and prod and twist things about, and at the end of the day there is still some manner of choice inherent in the souls of Fate's children.

This time, though, what happens is wrong. It is not a matter of something going astray; it is a matter of pure _destruction _of the path. Something twists so violently in the makeup of this lifetime that those unspoken rules that guide the fates of Arthur Pendragon and Merlin Emrys are torn from what should be. This is the spiraling oblivion of chaos, playing out in the forms of two men whose destinies are always bound together, for better or worse.

This is the worse.

This is one of the rare times where the past is hidden. Neither Merlin nor Arthur know anything of kingdoms or knights or magic, save the old legends and the power that always thrums in Merlin's veins. He has no conscious control of it, has no name for it, just feels it rush through him. As always, it reacts to Arthur's presence, baying up like hounds scenting prey, and when he feels it Merlin will call it this: _hatred_. He does not remember that once he called it something else: _love_. _(Next time though, they will remember, both of them, and the memories of this life will be scars, dark across the map of their minds, engraved deep in their souls.) _

Perhaps the capacity for hating Arthur always lies in Merlin's soul. Maybe it is another facet, something that can always be, should circumstances allow. After all, if he is capable of loving the man enough to tear the world apart, he must also be capable of hating him with enough magnitude to bring about the same destructive end. Whether it is something born in him, something created by circumstances, some trick of a greater power, or some manipulation, it will root in Merlin as pure hatred for Arthur Pendragon. And Mordred will come to his side, smiling and encouraging and driving the hatred deeper; he will touch Merlin and kiss him and whisper to him in the night that they have to destroy Arthur in order to make everything better. _Without him, _he'll say, _the world will be perfect. __**We **__will be perfect._

And Merlin will listen. He will nod and plot and every time he sees his foe his magic will nearly tear out of his skin. He takes that as a sign that Mordred is right. Arthur Pendragon must be _destroyed_.

_(And so he is.)_

Merlin will drink in the sight of him crumpling, will nudge his body over and smile into his dead eyes, and he will kiss Mordred in the middle of a bloody field and laugh and laugh. When Morgana approaches, picking her way through a course of bodies and bloodied grass, he will laugh and reach out and draw her into an embrace, spinning her around. It is her victory as well, after all. What he won't see is the way she avoids his gaze, or the tear tracks across her cheeks, or the way her lips will form two words—_I'm sorry—_right before she casts the fatal spell at his turned back. He will gasp when it strikes, slump to his knees, watch as she strikes Mordred down. She will bend over him, her hair a dark curtain obscuring a gray sky, and she will stroke his cheek. He will try to ask her why, but the words will froth on his lips and never emerge.

And his body, when it falls, will be a perfect mirrored position of Arthur's.

_(In the next life he will be unable to look Arthur in the eyes for __**years **__without guilt. He will look at his hands and know that they killed the person he loves most. He will nearly kill Mordred the first time he sees him. And the first time he sees Morgana, he will hug her tightly and bury his face into her shoulder, and whisper 'thank you' a hundred times.)_


	14. Incineration

A/N: I really haven't got much to say. Thanks to my reviewers (and lurkers, I know you're out there)! This one can be read as either friendship or very light slash, whatever you'd prefer.

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

**6. Incineration—**_to cause to burn to ashes_

Merlin doesn't have the dreams every night, but they happen often enough that by the time Arthur finds him, the fear of fire is so deeply ingrained that there is no fixing it. He flinches at the smell of smoke, he gives candles a wide berth, he has to be coaxed near a lit fireplace, and the moment that it crackles or sparks his every instinct will be to flee. This makes things difficult in a time when electricity has yet to be invented, and it means that he lives in darkness as the sun goes down and cold when the winter sets in. He stays in at night, knowing that if he goes out the fires will be all around him in one form or another, glaring out at him from every direction. To the rest of the world fire is a bright, welcoming warmth, but he will choose cold darkness every time.

By the time that Arthur finds him, he is near twenty and coping well with what should be a crippling handicap. He should freeze. He should hate the darkness that is his constant companion after the sun sets. He should loathe the confines of his house, the only place where he can fully banish the fire that is everywhere in the outside world. But he doesn't. He wraps himself in blankets and furs when the cold sets in; he adjusts his schedule so that he utilizes every last bit of sunlight he is offered. And when he has no other option, he uses magic to summon cold glowing light that has no heat and no flicker, though he shows a certain reluctance to use magic, an instinctive kind of fear not unconnected to the fires that haunt his nightmares.

And then Arthur comes, battering right into his life with the absolute certainty that he is meant to be there, a man of higher rank, one on the other side of twenty-five and moving towards thirty, but things like age and rank seems to have no bearing on him. At first it's a rash of meetings—just coincidence, chance meetings, although later on Merlin will look back and wonder how much was actually chance and how much was Arthur cleverly manipulating circumstance—and then it seems as though Merlin turns around to find Arthur inserted in every corner of his life. Not that he's _complaining_, because he's certainly not. Arthur is bright and vivacious and warm, all descriptions that could be ascribed to fire. And maybe Arthur _is_ fire, a living flame wreathed in a human body.

_(But Merlin isn't afraid of him.) _

After about a year, Arthur moves in with him. He _says _that it doesn't make sense for them to each pay full separate rent when they are together all the time anyway, but Merlin knows that's just an excuse. Arthur never flaunts how much money he has, but Merlin knows it's there all the same—it's spoken in silk linings on his clothing, in velvet, in gold accents, in the way he never hesitates at costs that make Merlin's head spin. Merlin knows that this is an empty excuse, but he doesn't question it. He _does _question why on earth Arthur would want to live with _him_.

"I—_why_?" He sputters when Arthur first broaches the idea. Arthur then explains rent and money and other things that Merlin tosses out the moment they are spoken, because they are lies and they aren't important anyway. He shakes his head. "No, I mean…I-there can't be any fire, Arthur. You know that. Once the sun goes down there's no light, not even a single candle. I suppose in your own room it would be fine, if I didn't know about it, but even the smoke can…there's no fire on a cold winter night either. Why would you want to live like that?"

Arthur just raises his eyebrows and levels a fond look at him. He gets those looks a lot, and has no idea what they mean half of the time. Being around Arthur in general is like that. Sometimes he knows exactly what the other man is like and how things between them stand, and then he does something that changes everything. "_You _live like that."

He folds his arms. "Because I _have _to."

"If you can, then I can too," Arthur says, and he diverts the subject before Merlin's mind has a chance to catch up and formulate a reply. The discussion takes on a tone of _settled _and Arthur moves in with him, and while he doesn't make a fuss over it, he _does _wait for Arthur to pack up and leave. He can't think why anyone would _choose _to live the way he does.

Instead, Arthur picks up the same kind of lifestyle that Merlin has, without complaint or hesitation, and takes to it as though he has always lived his life this way. Only a few times does Merlin catch him looking longingly at the boarded up fireplace, and on those few times Arthur just catches his eye, smiles, and piles on another blanket. Merlin hesitates to use magic, because it is one secret that he can't bring himself to tell, until Arthur trips over something one night and lands hard and he calls up light instinctively to check and make sure that the prat hasn't broken his head open or something like that. Instead he finds Arthur sitting grumpily on the floor, rubbing his foot with one hand and frowning at a small cut on the other. In the sudden light Arthur blinks and Merlin stands perfectly still, knowing that he has outed himself and waiting for some furious or panicked reaction. But Arthur just looks up at him and smiles and asks him to send the light closer so he can check the cut for splinters. He is completely unsurprised by the display of magic, and he never asks about it.

Merlin never asks him _why _he's not surprised, just like he never presses for the real reasons Arthur would want to live with him.

Then there is one night when he wakens from one of the nightmares—_fire crackling around his legs, smoke stinging his eyes, the flames are coming for him, they will crawl up his body and consume and oh god it hurts—_to find Arthur sitting on the bed next to him, shaking his shoulder and softly calling his name. He comes out of the vivid brightness of the dream into the comforting darkness and instantly raises a hand to dash away the tears he knows are there, embarassed. Arthur beats him to it, wiping the tears away with a slightly calloused thumb. Without a word, the man pulls back his covers and slides into the bed next to him, bringing him into the cove of his arms and holding him. Words choke in his throat and he buries his head into Arthur's chest instead, not crying, not speaking, just waiting for the flames behind his eyes to receed and leave him in peace.

Arthur never asks him what he dreams about. Never. Merlin tells him, eventually, in a halting voice, one winter night when the cold has chased away the sense of his flesh burning—_"I'm—I'm being burnt. At the stake. There are villagers and they __**hate **__me Arthur, I don't know why, but they do. They tie me to the stake and they set fire and I burn. Aren't you not supposed to be able to die in a dream? But I always do. I burn, and it __**hurts **__and I—"—_but Arthur never asks. And when he is told, he listens carefully and hugs Merlin tighter, but he isn't surprised, not by a single detail. Just like the magic, it's as though he already knows.

Arthur waking him from the dreams becomes common. He will wake from the flames and find safety in the man's embrace, and he won't dream any more that night. Eventually, Arthur stops sleeping in his own room entirely, just slides into bed with him at the end of their day and the dreams ease away, because Arthur is there to rescue him before they truly start. And while the fear of fire is always there, too ingrained to be healed, his nights are easier and his fears can be soothed by a touch from Arthur's hand.

And just as Arthur never asks about the magic or about the nightmares, Merlin never asks why some nights Arthur will hold him tighter and whisper _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry _into his hair. _(He already knows.)_

* * *

Questions, comments, concerns, requests, suggestions?


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